Hero Complex
by Dreamcatcher38
Summary: This is the legend of Arthur and Alfred. From their early days, to the star crossed tragedy of their romance, this is the story of nations who have loved, lost, and found their way along the path to discovering what it means to be a hero.
1. The Legend Begins

**Hero Complex:**  
a. A personality trait defined by the impulsive need to help others and change the world.  
b. The legend of Arthur and Alfred; the story of star-crossed nations who have loved, lost, and found their way along the path to discovering what it means to be a hero.

_Author's Notes: A friend challenged me to write a fic that contained both smut and sadness. And here we are. All of my USUK headcanons (almost) in one fic._

* * *

_Soundtrack: A Star is Born from Hercules, and Everyone's A Hero for Dr. Horrible._

_History Point: Colonialism_

It began on Alfred's first visit to London. Yet just a fledging nation, Arthur carried the young boy through the hectic streets of London, the boy's eyes wide and soaking in every colour and every detail. Arthur's heart was cheerful in the face of Alfred's sheer delight. As Alfred's eyes settled on a side street sweet shop, Arthur smirked knowingly. Alfred's sweet tooth would certainly be the death of him.

He put the boy down and held his hand, fishing with his other in his pocket for a few pence for sweets. They turned the corner and entered the shop, Alfred running ahead and pasting his sticky fingers and face to the glass behind which was displayed a variety of confectionaries.

"So the Hero returns," says the confectioner, addressing Arthur. "And with a tag along."

Arthur smiled, pointing to the sweets he wished to purchase. "Two of those please, and I had to bring home something from the New World didn't I?"

The confectioner packaged up the sweets in a small paper bag saying, "But of course. Does the lad have a name?"

"Alfred," Arthur replied, running his leather gloved fingers through Alfred's sunshine blond hair. Alfred's eyes shot up to Arthur upon hearing his name, and Arthur's heart fluttered.

"Well, here you are then Alfred," the confectioner said, slipping the bag of sweets around the glass to Alfred as Arthur left the payment on the counter. Alfred immediately snatched the bag and fished with his fingers inside.

"Oi, Alfred. What do we say to the confectioner?" Arthur said sharply.

"Thank you Mister con-fish-in-er!" Alfred said proudly. Arthur just shook his head as Alfred began devouring his sweets.

"Confectioner, Alfred," Arthur sighed. "Con-fect-shon-er."

"Con-fect-in-er," Alfred replied.

"Close enough," the confectioner said, laughing softly. "Don't eat those too quickly there, lad, you'll upset yourself."

"Okay!" Alfred replied, placing his sweet back in the bag, and poking his head out the door into the sunshine. It sparkled off the natural highlights in the boy's hair.

"Oh, of course, the brat listens to you," Arthur said, rolling his eyes and following Alfred out into the street.

Spurred by his lesson on the word "confectioner," Alfred paused their walk to read the newsstand display.

"Great ex-por-ers return from America!" Alfred read aloud to Arthur.

"Explorers," Arthur corrected lightly.

"Do they mean you, Mister Arthur?" Alfred asked.

"Sort of, also the crew and captain of the ship," Arthur explained.

"A star is born," Alfred read the subheading as Arthur purchased a paper. "What does that mean?"

"Just that someone has become popular or gained public importance," Arthur tried to explain.

"Like a hero?" Alfred asked.

"A hero could be considered a star, yes," Arthur said, leading Alfred off the main road and down a side street towards their London home.

"I want to be a hero," Alfred said. "Just like you!"

Arthur smarted for a moment, a delight welling inside of him. Then he said something he wouldn't realize the implications of until years later.

"Well you are a hero, you know," Arthur said. "Everyone's a hero in their own way."

"Huh?" Alfred said.

Arthur stopped and crouched down in front of Alfred, gently tapping on his chest with his gloved finger.

"In your heart is the power for making you a hero too," Arthur said. He turned and lured Alfred's sight to the stars emerging in the twilight that settled over London. "Every night a star is born."

Alfred smiled and hugged Arthur tight.

"I'm going to be the best hero ever!" Alfred exclaimed.

Arthur picked the boy up and carried him the rest of the way home.

"You do that, lad," he replied. _And I hope you have more morality than me_, he thought.

* * *

_And the legend begins! I know it's cheesy but I had to start somewhere, right? I promise it will get more in-depth as we go._

_Reviews are amazing and so are favourites and any other love you have to give._


	2. Liberty

_Author's Notes: I have this image of Alfred in a scene at the end of this chapter that I can't get out of my head. I lack the skill to draw, so this is the best I can do, and I'm hoping you get the same vibes that I do. I think it encompasses well what I think it means to be a nation, as well as what it means to be young. At the same time I feel like Arthur's section captures what it means to become an adult._

BREAK

_Soundtrack: I Need a Hero by Bonnie Tyler_

_History Point: Around the War of Independence_

It was raining. Arthur stood in his small countryside home, watching the rain make streams on the windows and pelt the rose garden. His raincoat hung dripping onto the hardwood landing from its perch on the coat rack. The tick of the clock on the wall and the off rhythm drip of the coat were the only sounds besides the crackling of the fire. On the table was an open newspaper, the edges a bit wrinkled from the humidity and wet.

Outside, the rain fell. Inside, Arthur's heart broke all over again. As it did, every time he read such a headline.

_Our Beacon in the Darkness_, the headline read. _America: A Star Is Born._

Arthur left the window and plucked some of America's favourite sweets from the dish on the coffee table, looking at the absurdly coloured objects in his hand. He didn't know why he kept them, Alfred had not spoken to him in years. It has been decades since the fall of the British Empire. Now, America was stealing the limelight. A new star is born.

Throwing the sweets across the room, Arthur swept his hands across the coffee table, scrunching the newspaper into a tight ball in his rage and tossing it onto the fire warming the small cottage. Arthur watched it burn and fought the tears as he tried to calm himself. He is an adult. He is an Empire. _Was _an Empire. But worse, he is _responsible_. Not just for the rise of America, but for Alfred himself.

Arthur picked up the phone and dialed a familiar number, slouching into the sofa.

"'Allo?" The person on the other end answered.

"Hello Francis," Arthur replied softly.

"Ah, Angleterre, you saw the paper today, non?" Francis replied gently. In any other case, Francis would open with ridicule, but not when Arthur was in enough of a fragile state already.

"Can I ask you something?" Arthur asked.

"Of course," Francis said gently.

"Do you miss him?" Arthur asked.

"Who?" Francis asked, trying to guess where Arthur was going with this.

"Matthew," Arthur said. "Do you ever miss Matthew?"

Francis was quiet for a moment, but decided to answer with honesty.

"In more ways than I think I understand," Francis replied.

"Francis, I… Why do I feel responsible for Alfred?" Arthur asked.

"I do not know, Angleterre," Francis replied. "But they are children as we were children. And as hard as we try, we cannot stop them from making the mistakes we ourselves made. It is the course of life and of history. You know Alfred always wanted to be like you. He is equally as stubborn."

"He isn't anything like me, he wants to be a foolish hero," Arthur replied with spite.

"Onhonhon… and where do you think he got an idea like that?" Francis asked, knowingly.

Arthur looked over at the sweets lying on the carpeted floor.

"Thanks frog," Arthur said, his voice cracking. He hung up the phone.

Lying on the sofa, Arthur buried his head in the pillows and cried. He was Dr. Frankenstein. And he had created a monster he could no longer control.

That same monster was lying on the very pinnacle of one of the towers of the Manhattan Bridge, worker walkways lacing across the river and joining the pillars. The water rushed miles beneath him, the dockyards spilling out into the city beyond. The night sky sparkled with a smattering of stars, the sounds of Manhattan nightlife spilling around him in pulse with his heartbeat. He was laying spread eagle, his arms and toes reaching as far out as they could, grasping at impossible horizons.

The height did not unnerve him as the wind rushed around and gently swayed the towers. He felt unstoppable, impossibly brave, and impossibly powerful. He felt confident that if he tumbled from his secluded perch, he would undoubtedly survive the fall. He was America, the land of the free, the land of the dream. He was capable of any feat, large or small, however miraculous. In America, anything was possible, even defying death.

Above the city, he felt the energy of his vast land course through him, hopeful and prosperous. He brimmed with it as he shouted aloud at the stars.

"Look at me now, Arthur!" he screamed at the sky. "Watch me shine. Nothing can stop me!"

He smiled as he pondered how he had grown. He was taller, stronger, and faster, his appetite insatiable and his desire hopelessly passionate. He laughed breathlessly as he choked down the cool night air and darted his eyes as he connected the constellations in the sky; Draco and Orion, Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, Kings and Queens, Heavens and Hell. He had grown on the back of their stories, their timeless voices, their incredible exploits. He stood on the shoulders of giants and challenged all of creation.

Arthur's voice echoed in the back of Alfred's brain, the stories of the sky that Arthur had told him with a painstaking patience. And a message Alfred would never forget, _in your heart is the power to make you a hero too_.

With the life of his vast cities coursing through his veins, Alfred sprinted down the makeshift wooden walkway and came skidding to a halt at the top of the second pillar, rubble slipping over the edge towards the island sprawling out before him. He spread his arms wide in challenge to the ocean, somewhere beyond the farthest reaches of fledging Manhattan.

"Every night a star is born," Alfred shouted, tears of rage spilling from his eyes as he watched the meteor show begin around him. "And I will glow brighter than any star, stronger than the heat of a thousand suns! The hope of a hundred thousand million people! The stardust of a hundred thousand million dreams! I am freedom and justice and liberty. I am strong as the tallest mountain and winding as the longest river!"

Alfred gasped breathlessly and hung his head, lowering his arms to his sides.

"I am America. I am a legend built on the ancestry of the world," Alfred said quietly to himself. "I am Alfred fucking Jones, and my heart beats with the dreams of my people. And I will be their hero."

Alfred sat down, his legs dangling on the edge of the pillar. He scarcely imagined he could tumble just like the shooting stars around him, if only the wind so chose to nudge him over the edge into the frigid waters racing below.

* * *

_Now we're getting somewhere. I hope you got the same vibes I got from Alfred in this scene._

_Reviews and Favourites are Love. I hope you liked it and stick with me. ^^_


	3. The Stranger

_Author's Notes: There is a song by Billy Joel called _The Stranger_, which I've recommended for this chapter. I think it's really important to listen to it before you read this chapter because I think it has significant influence on the point that Arthur is in his life. The gist of the meaning of the song is that we all have different faces for different situations, and not everyone we know has seen all our faces, not even those we love. The song says "Why were you so surprised that you never saw the stranger, did you ever let your lover see the stranger in yourself?" When Arthur encounters a very much grown up Alfred in this chapter, this is sort of the idea that is occurring to him. Why is he surprised to see Alfred grown up, that he didn't foresee this stranger in front of him? And yet, there are sides of Arthur than he would never let Alfred see. It's curious as well, because as you'll see from Arthur's remarks about Matthew, that he's come to see Matthew as an adult and not Alfred._

_I also think this song is very important to Alfred as a character. He likes to put on many different faces, largely as a coping mechanism. Where Arthur has tea and books, Alfred has masks and dramatics. Perhaps it's something I'll explore further in the future._

_Anyways, sorry, that was long. You can read the chapter now._

* * *

_Soundtrack: The Stranger by Billy Joel_

_History Point: Stock Market Crash that Lead to the Great Depression_

It was a warm summer afternoon when Arthur got the call from Matthew. He was relaxing in the backyard with a copy of Tennyson when the Butler brought him the message.

"Master Williams," the Butler said. "Sounds urgent, sir. The child sounded quite distraught."

"He is scarcely a child anymore," Arthur replied, following the Butler inside to where the telephone rested on the wall. "Certainly not since he started dating Francis."

"Quite right, sir," the Butler replied, and was dismissed.

Arthur picked up the phone from where it lied on the table.

"Hello?" Arthur asked only to hear vigorous coughing coming from the other end of the line.

"Arthur!" Matthew cried out, still coughing. "Oh Arthur. I… I don't know what to do… it happened so quickly… this has never happened before…"

"Calm down, child. What is it that's happened? Did the bloody frog do something to you?" Arthur asked grudgingly.

"No… it's not Francis… Arthur… It's Alfred, I…I can't wake him up. I think he's gone comatose," Matthew said between panicked sobs. "And I can't bring down his fever."

It felt as though Arthur's stomach had bottomed out. Guilt washed over him as he braced himself against the table to keep from collapsing. No, not Alfred, please, Arthur begged to himself.

"Arthur, please, what do I do?" Matthew cried. Immediately, Arthur realized he was going to have to put himself second and take control of the situation. "Arthur?"

"It's… It's alright, Matthew, thank you for telling me," Arthur said, fighting to keep his voice level. "Alfred will be fine, I'm sure. I will come over immediately."

"What do I do until then?" Matthew asked.

"I want you to take care of you. There's nothing more you can do for Alfred but keep an eye on him. How did you get such a nasty cough?" Arthur asked, trying to distract Matthew, but the Canadian's cough did sound genuinely concerning.

"It's just a cold," Matthew said, still coughing. "I should be fine. It's the economy collapse… I think the same thing is happening to Alfred."

Matthew was probably right, the stock market crash had rattled all the nations, and Arthur wasn't doing particularly well either.

"Alright, well lie down, drink some tea, I'll be over to attend to Alfred soon," Arthur said. "Goodbye."

Hanging up, Arthur called for the Butler.

"Prepare my things to leave immediately," he instructed.

"Certainly, sir," the Butler replied as Arthur dialed another number and waited for the click of the connection.

"Hello Francis," Arthur said.

"Onhonhon, Angleterre, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Francis asked, teasing out of the gates.

"Shut it frog, this is serious," Arthur snapped. "Alfred's gone comatose and Matthew sounds pretty bad, plus the anxiety alone over his brother might do a number on him."

"Mon dieu, I will pack immediately," Francis said.

"I'll handle Alfred, do you think you can deal with Matthew?" Arthur asked.

"Onhonhon, should not be a problem," Francis replied almost too happily, hanging up.

When Arthur arrived, he was presented with a house he had never before seen. He was greeted by a long drive that led up to pillars and large bay windows. An American flag hung proudly on its post by the door.

Arthur was let in by the head maid and found Canada asleep on one of the sofas in the parlour. The Brit checked Matthew's temperature, only to find him chilled. As Arthur pulled a blanket over the Canadian, he shifted in response and Arthur was comforted to know he would be alright until Francis arrived.

Alfred was found in the bedroom upstairs, his blinds pulled away and the windows wide open to let in the cool summer breeze. Arthur froze at the sight of Alfred, lying still in bed with a housemaid mopping his brow. It had been some time since he had seen Alfred, and the boy he once knew had grown considerably. Alfred appeared to be nearing six feet tall, and his face had aged dramatically with a lean masculinity to the point where Arthur found him to be terribly attractive. Arthur paused in the doorway and gasped slightly, drawing the attention of the housemaid.

"His fever just won't break," the maid explained.

Arthur crossed the room to lean on one of the bedposts. Alfred was paler than Arthur had ever seen him, even when the boy fell ill to the pox all those years ago. But the person in front of him now was no boy, but a man; a very handsome, very sick, stranger. Yet somewhere inside of this stranger was the Alfred he once knew.

"Are you alright?" the maid asked, after Arthur had failed to speak.

"Yes, yes of course," Arthur said, started into focussing on the maid. "Sorry, love, you've done your duty well, I will take over."

Curtsying, the maid fetched a fresh bowl of cool water for Arthur and shut the door behind her.

Arthur and Alfred were alone but for the humming of cicadas coming in with the breeze from outside. Arthur picked up the towel and rung out the cool water, placing it on Alfred's burning forehead. He didn't react to the touch. Arthur picked up his hand. Still nothing.

On Alfred's hand was a ring, some sort of official seal of some kind, and Arthur played with it as it caught the light. And as he held Alfred's hand in his own, he couldn't help but notice just how big those hands were, and strong, the palms calloused with hard work. Arthur sighed, soothingly rubbing his thumb over Alfred's knuckles.

"Alfred, what have you done?" Arthur sighed, lacking the feeling to even insult the boy, now a man, who had left him. "You've grown up, that's what you did. You've gone and grown up without me. When did I miss that?"

Arthur laughed solemnly, and continued his pointless monologue.

"I suppose you didn't need me for that did you? There couldn't be two heroes, I guess. One of us had to quit. Well you won that one, and look at what you've become… so much bigger and so much better than I could have ever dreamed. The world at your fingertips. Your naïve, innocent fingertips. Oh, Alfred, what did I do? Where did I go wrong?"

Arthur let the tears slip from his eyes as he refreshed the towel to try and break the fever.

"I did this. I should have kept a better eye on you, I shouldn't have let you go, I shouldn't have let you dream so big… but who was I to ever stop you. You were made of stars, made of dreams… You were America and I was just a petty island nation with a big ego. Why would you ever want to be like me?"

Arthur wiped his eyes and measured Alfred's temperature again. Still soaring, his breathing shallow and soft. Arthur sifted through the bottles of medication they had been giving Alfred, none of which were working because Alfred wasn't suffering from the flu; he was a nation battling a national collapse. Alone.

"So stubborn, so headstrong…" Arthur murmured and began whispering an ancient lullaby he used to sing to Alfred when he was younger. His eyes spilling over, he looked up at the vacant face of the stranger Alfred had become. Arthur ran his fingers through Alfred's damp blond hair, something familiar, something comforting.

"I'm sorry," Arthur whispered. He knew Alfred was beyond coming back. He skimmed the headlines of the paper next to the bed. America's economy was gone under his feet. He had gambled everything and lost. There was only one thing that could save Alfred and it was entirely up to Arthur. Arthur would be deciding the course of history. He could bring Alfred back with magic.

Arthur found it amusing that it was scarcely even a choice. Even though the boy in front of him was no longer the boy he once knew, Arthur knew he would do anything to save him.

He brushed his hands over Alfred's eyes and whispered the words. Arthur's green eyes glowed, and he felt his fingers tingle. Alfred groaned and moved beneath his hand.

"Mpmph, Arthur…" Alfred mumbled and rolled over, nestling his head underneath the arm he had pulled over his head. Arthur smiled and soothed Alfred as he continued to pet his head, but was interrupted by a loud knocking at the front door. Arthur could hear the startled shout of the housemaid as the visitors barged their way into the house, shouting as they stomped up the stairwell.

"ALFRED FUCKING JONES! SO HELP ME GOD, IF YOU ARE STILL IN BED YOU LAZY-" a man shouted, cut off when he turned into the bedroom and found Arthur tending to Alfred.

"You… what are you doing here?" the man asked, dressed in a suit, with an earpiece coiling behind his ear and a bulge in his jacket where surely a gun was stowed.

"He is unwell," Arthur explained as calmly as he could, standing and approaching the suits. "But he is better now. I should be leaving."

However, the suit blocked his exit.

"I asked, what are _you_ doing here?" the suit growled.

Arthur raised his arms in a show of innocence and tried to remain calm. He heard coughing in the stairwell and a muttered, "Good god, who is making all this noise?"

The suit reacted by pulling out his gun and turning it on the source of the sound.

"Merde, what the hell!" Matthew screeched, wheeling backwards, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders falling to the ground. With all the grace that Canada possessed, he tripped over the blanket and tumbled over. Arthur sighed as Matthew groaned.

"Are you alright, Matthew?" Arthur called out.

"Oui," Matthew mumbled out between coughs. "Why does he have a gun?"

"Ask him," Arthur answered. "I haven't the faintest…"

"Mister Canada! Sir!" the suit smarted, holstering his gun and rushing over to help Matthew up. "I didn't realize it was you."

"I'm sorry for startling you," Matthew replied in an extremely Canadian fashion. "Now if you don't mind, could you leave? Alfred is ill and I don't have the patience for you right now."

"But he-" the suit gestured towards Arthur, but Arthur had already snuck past and out the door.

* * *

_And Alfred lives to see another day. Arthur has fallen in love with a natural grace and ease, but will Alfred do the same? Will Alfred ever love Arthur?_

_Review to find out!_


	4. Fall From Grace

_Author's Notes: Where Arthur transitions into loving Alfred smoothly and naturally, Alfred falls hard, deeply, and all at once for Arthur. In the last chapter, where Arthur quietly comes to accept that he's in love with Alfred as simply as he might accept that it is raining outside, Alfred has a lot harder time coming to terms with strong emotions he doesn't quite understand. Arthur is much older after all… ;)_

* * *

_Soundtrack: Clarity by Zedd ft. Foxes_

_History Point: Post Victory in Europe day, but Alfred is still fighting Kiku_

Arthur did not see Alfred again until the fallout of the Second World War. They sat across from each other at the discussion table, Arthur watching Alfred carefully as their world leaders determined the boons of victory. Alfred slouched awkwardly in his seat, his face half bandaged, picking at the sleeves of his bomber jacket and in complete contrast to the over aggressive, forward attitude of his President.

When his President elbowed him in the side, Alfred flinched and sat up to met Arthur's regal gaze, but immediately turned his head to the side and shied away. Arthur watched as Alfred shifted and held his head in his hands, his gloved fingers knotting in his golden hair. The American President leaned over and whispered something in Alfred's ear. Alfred promptly bolted from the room, his chair clattering to the floor behind him and the doors left swinging wide.

He ran into the cool night and unfamiliar street until he reached a park, tearing off his gloves and digging his fingernails into the rough bark of a tree. Tears welled in his eyes as he strained against uncontrollable emotions and physical pain, his heart pounding and his breathing desperate.

"Fuck," Alfred cried to himself. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…"

His body was still tearing itself apart in the aftermath of Pearl Harbour and he shook with pain. But his mind was swimming with thoughts of something else, or rather, someone else. It was filled entirely with the thought of Arthur and the way he had looked at Alfred across the discussion table, his eyes haunted by sorrow and guilt. And Alfred had been washed over with the frantic and unexplainable desire to kiss him.

He crashed to his knees in front of the tree and fished in his pockets with shaky hands for a bottle of medication. Cracking it open, he downed five or six of the pills he knew would do nothing to help the pain or anxiety, but took them simply for reassurance. His eyes welled over with tears as he banged weakly with his fists at the tree trunk, echoing sobs escaping his lips.

As he closed his eyes, he was haunted by an image of Arthur, a few years previous, lying limp and unconscious with his chest struck through with spears of shrapnel from where he had been caught in a bombing raid. The ground pooled in crimson and Alfred had screamed uncontrollably until his brother pulled him away and slapped him to his senses.

Alfred's eyes shot open and he clawed at his chest as he cried, as if he could tear away the heartache with his bare hands. Those hands had longed to reach out across the table to Arthur only moments before and remember once again what it had felt like to hold Arthur's long and careful fingers in his own, to know his touch, his warmth, his smell. But Alfred had failed to protect Arthur. He had been broken, beaten and shown his naïve ways. He had crashed from impossible heights yet again. And Arthur could not possibly love a broken, foolish man.

Alfred had failed to protect the one thing he loved more deeply than he could begin to comprehend, and was forced to watch as Arthur shared in the agony that followed in the repercussions of war. Alfred's tears were shed for all the hope of things that could have been, of relationships that could have been mended, of heroes standing tall on their pedestals and not broken and bleeding under the weight of anarchy.

Alfred rested his head against the tree and slowed his sobs as he cried himself empty. Looking at his hands with bloodshot eyes, Alfred resolved to resurface a darker and stranger part of his self and prepared to do unspeakably terrible things in the name of ones he loved. He curled his hands into fists. He would not be broken. As the hero, he would bring justice to those who had brought this pain into his life and the lives of the ones he loved.

* * *

_A friend asked if I was suggesting Alfred was contemplating Hiroshima at the end of this chapter. Which, now that I look over it, is not a completely wrong assumption. It works. But I was also trying to lead up to Cold War connotations for the next chapter._

_Reviews mean faster updates._


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